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 Posted: Thu Dec 11, 2008 6:52 pm
PERFORMANCE
Performance Title:
Special Guest Andrew Brandt Opens.
Genre:
Concert.
Starring:
Andrew Brandt.
Description:
Andrew managed to book a gig at a small local venue, as an opening band for a much more popular band. He's the first band up, the only opener for the headliner, and he's doing everything alone; just him, his acoustic, and a microphone.
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Posted: Thu Dec 11, 2008 7:50 pm
Andew's palms were a tad sweatier than he would've liked, but he wasn't really paying attention to the moisture levels of his hands. He was trying to remember the last time he played a real show, not an audition or garage show, like the one he was about to; most likely a few years prior, back in Seattle, at a local Coffeehouse Live event that his mother had sponsored. He had played without any instrumental accompaniment, preferring to enlist the help of a few of his close personal friends to sing it a cappella instead.
"You're on in five," one of the roadies barked at him as he started absently out at the stage, startling him out of his train of thought. Andrew had been so enveloped in his own thoughts that he hadn't realized the entire venue was full of screaming, dancing, excited-looking girls. Tall, short; younger, older; pierced with crazy hair colors, wearing Hollister sweatshirts and wrapped around guys with popped collars. The opening band was more popular than he thought they were; or was he the popular one? He seriously doubted it. But it wasn't a bad thing to get a nice little adrenaline-feuled egoboost before a show...
"Hey, Brandt!" he heard from behind a curtain, and the lead singer of the headlining band poked his shaggy head. Andrew returned the greeting with a small wave and a huge grin. "Just remember what I told you this morning."
Andrew had ended up going out to breakfast with the singer and the bassist of the headlining band, spending a wonderful three hours at a sit-down restaurant and playing with the syrup, butter, and coffee creamer brought to him by a starry-eyed waitress. The singer had spoken a few very meaningful, very gruff, very hungover words into his ear while the waitress placed a large Belgian waffle coated in powdered sugar and strawberries in the middle of the table; "They're all going to be watching you. Half will be fantasizing in the wildest ways. A quarter will think it's incredible. An eighth will think you're okay. A sixteenth will hate you. And the rest don't matter. Just remember that half of the girls in the audience think you're the coolest thing since sliced bread."
Two minutes until he went onstage, Andrew clapped the singer on the shoulder, his heart pounding with the sudden excitement. They grinned at each other, Andrew slinging his guitar strap over his shoulder and shaking his dark hair out of his dark eyes, the singer hitching up his pants and cracking his knuckles.
"Break a leg, don't let the girls mob the stage for you," Andrew heard the singer call to him as he walked onto the stage, the bright lights blinding him momentarily and the cheer of the crowd deafening him.
"Hey," he said breathlessly as he got to the center of the stage, gripping the mic in front of him for dear life. "I'm Andrew Brandt, and I feel like the coolest thing since sliced bread." Immediately, the crowd began to laugh and cheer; his initial attempt at grabbing their attention and keeping them interested had worked. A girl in the front row was staring up at him, mouth agape, a glittering stud in her eyebrow wiggling ever so slightly in the light.
"This is for you," he said softly into the mic, looking directly at the girl, as he launched into the first song he ever wrote; Hearts, Stars, and Cemeteries, from way back when he used to sit in his basement and record acoustic tracks when he got home from school.
"Just two people / falling in love / surrounded but we know / we're all alone. / I just want to know your name / come on and give it to me (come on and give it to me). / We're seeing the stars up in the sky / start to fall toward you and I / sleeping in the cemetery with the clouds / singing all our cheap love songs..." He rocked back and forth as he sang, his eyes closed and his lungs screaming from the pure adrenaline pumping through his veins. His guitar had been hooked up to one of the amps, so besides sounding incredibly in tune, it sounded wonderful. But best of all, when he opened his eyes, he saw that same girl in the front row, giggling and swaying along with the fun acoustic tune, her eyes looking a little misty. That made it all worth it.
He played three more songs; another he had written back in Seattle for his then-girlfriend, a slower-paced love song that ended on a rather sweet note, and one he had written since being accepted into Walk of Fame. The second song chronicled the story of a boy that fell in love with a prostitute, watched her practically destroy herself, then raised her up to be the most beautiful thing in the city before she eventually did herself in, putting a gun to her head the night before their wedding. The last song was a cover of Panic at the Disco's "Time to Dance," a song written with one of his favorite books in mind.
When he finished, he took a long bow and said into the mic, "Thanks for putting up with me, now here's what you really came for!" before hurrying off the stage for the roadies to set up the headlining band's gear.
"Good job, mate," the singer called to him as he made his way back to the green room. Now, not just his palms were sweaty; he had moved and rocked and exerted himself onstage to the point of feeling disgusting. Once he was safely in his own private washroom, he stripped off his concert clothes, took a quick shower, and pulled on suitable clothes for the inevitable meet-and-greet at the door.
Stepping into the crowd as the headliners were still playing was easier than he would've thought, and Andrew settled into a seat at the bar without any trouble. Then he felt someone tap his shoulder softly, and he turned to see who it was.
It was the girl from the front row, her sterling silver eyebrow piercing still glittering in the dancing light. She was smiling from ear to ear, her eyes lined in black and purple, her bleached hair pinned back behind a headband.
"Shouldn't you be watching the show?" Andrew teased, shouting over the music.
"I came here for you, just to get a picture," the girl called back, holding up a tiny silver camera. "Do you mind?" Andrew laughed. This was incredible; his first real fan.
"Not at all," he said, pulling her close and squishing her against him as she adjusted her camera and snapped a photo. She giggled ecstatically, jumping up and down once, before thanking him profusely and scurrying back to her friends.
Andrew was in a daze. His first fan. It was too good to be true. The rest of the night passed by in a blur, and by the time he was tucking himself back into his cozy bed, he was so exhausted that he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.
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